Chapter 5: The Crimson Feast
The manor awoke in hues of deep crimson.
From the vaulted ceiling to the blood-colored tapestries cascading along the ballroom walls, it was as though the heart of the house itself had been slit open to bleed grandeur. Black candles flickered in iron chandeliers above, dripping wax like tears. Guests arrived by carriage, their laughter echoing like the clinking of empty glasses, their silks sweeping the stone steps like whispers in a tomb.
Elira stood still before the looking glass.
The dress chosen for her was unlike anything she'd worn before—velvet the color of dying roses, fitted tight at the bodice and sleeved in sheer gauze, whispering around her wrists like smoke. Her reflection looked like someone else entirely: a girl sculpted from dusk and secrets.
The collar gleamed at her throat.
She hated it.
"Still fidgeting?"
She startled at the voice. Lord Thorne leaned against the doorway, a vision in black formal wear lined with deep garnet. The brooch at his throat bore the Vaelric sigil: a thorn-wrapped moon. He looked like a gothic painting stepped out of its frame—too composed, too cold.
"You keep pulling at it," he said, gaze flicking to the collar. "You'll make your discomfort obvious."
"I thought the whole point was for everyone to know I'm uncomfortable," she muttered.
He stepped into the room slowly, his boots silent on the polished floor.
"This gathering wasn't meant for you," he said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "But certain voices at Court… demand spectacle. And since I've already defied expectation by not killing you—"
"Charming."
"—they'll want to see what makes you worth sparing."
The words cut more than she expected. She looked down.
"You could always choose not to bring me," she said.
He paused.
"I could." His voice was quiet, even. "But they would ask questions. Questions I've no interest in answering. They want a performance, and I intend to give them nothing more."
He met her gaze then, and for the briefest moment, she saw it—not cruelty, but burden. A man walking a path carved by blades.
Elira swallowed. "So I'm to be put on display."
"You are under my protection," he corrected, gently. "And that, in their eyes, is more unusual than if I'd bled you dry."
He stepped forward and fastened a black velvet cloak around her shoulders. His fingers brushed her collarbone—just briefly—but her skin reacted like frost meeting flame.
"Remember the rules," he murmured. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not touch anything that glows. Stay within five steps of me at all times."
"What happens if I don't?"
He leaned closer, so only she could hear.
"They'll eat you alive."
The Crimson Court
The ballroom was a cathedral of decadence.
Elira had never seen so many vampires gathered in one place. There were lords and ladies in every shade of darkness—some pale as bone, others marked by blood-stained irises or tattoos like living scripture. The air was heavy with perfume, old magic, and something richer beneath: the unmistakable scent of blood.
As she walked beside Thorne, she felt their eyes. Like insects crawling across her skin.
"Lord Vaelric," someone greeted. A woman in a dress of gold chains and shadows stepped into their path. Her smile was too sharp, her eyes too knowing.
"And this must be your new… accessory."
Elira felt her pulse stutter. She stood straighter.
Thorne's expression didn't change. "Her name is Elira."
"A pet with a name," the woman cooed. "How quaint."
Elira said nothing. But her hands curled into fists beneath the folds of her gown.
Lord Thorne moved on, and she followed, passing clusters of whispering nobles, their lips curling into amusement or disdain. It wasn't hard to read the room—most thought her a curiosity, a weakness, or a challenge.
More than once, she caught words like pet, human, toy.
She kept her chin up.
Then she saw him.
Across the ballroom, beyond a cluster of nobles near the bloodwine fountain, a figure stood. Not a vampire, or at least… not fully. His posture was rigid, his hair darker than she remembered, but his face—
Her breath caught.
Calen?
She blinked, and the figure was gone.
"Elira," Thorne's voice snapped her attention back. "Do not wander."
"I—I wasn't—" Her throat tightened. "I thought I saw someone."
Thorne's eyes searched hers. His tone lowered. "Who?"
She hesitated. "My brother."
Something unreadable crossed his face, then vanished. He turned his head, scanning the crowd.
"You're certain?"
She wasn't. The light, the music, the eyes everywhere—maybe it was just a cruel trick of the night.
"…No," she admitted.
But the ache in her chest said otherwise.
Thorne touched her arm—briefly, grounding.
"Stay close."
As the night dragged on, Elira said nothing more. Thorne spoke with other lords, his voice smooth, dispassionate, while she remained at his side like an ornament. But under her stillness, her thoughts raced.
She couldn't shake the glimpse of that face.
If Calen was here…
Was he alive?
Why hadn't he come for her?
And why, when she finally dared to believe for a heartbeat, did she feel Thorne watching her not like a master watches a pet—but like a man standing at the edge of something he could no longer control?